Judgment Day
by Wenhaver
Summary: COMPLETE. A look into Frodo and Sam's thoughts before, during, and after the destruction of the Ring. What led to Frodo's failure to reject the Ring's temptation?
1. Samwise the Brave

DISCLAIMER: The characters/places mentioned herein are property of J.R.R. Tolkien Estate Ltd., not Keara. Some dialogue taken from "Mount Doom" and "The Field of Cormallen", from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

JUDGMENT DAY

By: Keara

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Part I: Samwise the Brave

Sam woke from his slumber with a start, feeling as though he had slept for several hours longer than was advisable. He looked up at Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire, as it loomed overhead, standing tall and ominous and grim. No sign of life was anywhere, except for him and his master, who lay beside him on the ground in a deep sleep that was as lifeless as the gray and desolate land. 

Sam stood up, and then bent down to rouse his master. Frodo looked so weary and defeated when he slept, but this was an improvement to his unresponsive state when he trudged along with the Ring. They were so close now, so close to ending their quest. Just a little further and it would all be over. All of Sam's energy was bent on bringing Frodo to Mount Doom, where the Ring could be destroyed. "Now for it! Now for the last gap!" he said as he continued to shake his master's still form.

Frodo groaned miserably at Sam's attempts to wake him. Reluctantly, he staggered to his feet, and looked warily at the shadowy road that lay before them. Frodo was pale and emaciated, and there was no light in his eyes. His legs could no longer hold his weight, and he fell to his knees with a whimper of frustration and discouragement. He looked up at Mount Doom, and his face cringed in misery as a tear rolled down his cheek. He put his hands before him and slowly started to crawl, inching forward in the dust. 

Sam bit his lip to hold back tears. Frodo did not look at all like the hobbit he had once been, the happy creature that had left the Shire not knowing how great a destiny awaited him. He was pitiful, hardly alive as he moved along on his knees. He was dying.

Sam knew he could not watch this heartbreaking display any longer. "I said I'd carry him, if it broke my back," he muttered to himself. "And I will!"

"Come, Mr. Frodo!" he cried. "I can carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he'll go."

Frodo was too weak to argue with his friend's gallant request. He put his arms around Sam's neck and allowed himself to be lifted off the ground. Frodo was unnaturally thin and gaunt, but with the Ring's remarkable weight, and the fact that Sam himself was also weak and frail, he was a heavy burden on Sam's aching bones. But he tarried on nonetheless, without a word of complaint. There were times he suspected that Frodo slept, but he trudged along in the dark.

Hours passed. They had started at the foot of the mountain. By some miracle, perhaps Sam's resolve to save his master, or the magic of an unseen force, Sam was already halfway up the sheer slope by the time his strength failed him. He collapsed, and Frodo tumbled to the ground. Neither moved, exhaustion sending them into a daze. "Thank you, Sam," Frodo said finally, his voice raspy and barely more than a whisper. "How far is there to go?" Even without any walking, the weight of the Ring around his neck had been a painful burden for Frodo as he clung to his comrade's back. 

"I don't know," said Sam, "because I don't know where we're going."

Now, Sam hoped to ease the pain of his back before continuing up the rocky slope. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. But then he had nothing to distract him from the pain, and his eyes watered and stung until he was forced to open them again. He looked at his master, but Frodo has dozed off. Taking another deep breath, Sam stared up at the sky for a few moments. In Mordor, the seat of the Enemy's power, a black cloud covered all the land, and only meager rays of sunlight leaked through from time to time. It was often difficult to tell if it was night or day. There were no stars. Many times throughout their journey, before they had entered Mordor, Sam would find comfort in the night sky and the twinkling stars, which seemed to wink at him as he tried in vain to remember their Elvish names. Sam adored the Elves. "I don't suppose I'll ever see them again, either—Elves or stars," he thought dismally. Sam sighed and took his eyes away from the ominous sky. 

Seeing what lay only feet from their rocky perch, he started and quickly sat up. A path! It was steep and narrow and jagged, but to Sam it appeared smooth and wonderful and perfect. Hope unlooked for, in times of despair, is above all other aids, and it afforded Sam the will to carry on when he was about to fail. He drew a breath, and exhaled deeply. "Why, it might have been put there a-purpose!" he said, regarding the seemingly-magical road before him with immense relief. "If it wasn't there, I'd have to say I was beaten in the end." 

But looking at Frodo, he couldn't bring himself to disturb his master. How terrible the small hobbit looked, the Ring clenched tightly in his fist. Slowly and gradually, and almost imperceptibly, the light in the land seemed to increase. It was a nice feeling, though Sam dismissed it as his imagination, seeing some of the darkness seem to fade away ever so slightly. All was quiet. But soon, the two resting hobbits heard something that reminded them of the urgency of their mission. A war horn sounded in the distance. War. The Enemy had declared war. They had to finish their quest, finish it now, before it was too late and the world was covered in shadow. Simultaneously, the two hobbits struggled to their knees. "I'll crawl, Sam!" Frodo gasped.

They crept up the path, inching along slowly. Frodo was shaking violently, which disturbed his companion. It looked as though Frodo was about to pass out. "Mister Frodo?" Sam asked cautiously.

Suddenly, Frodo stood erect and looked in horror towards the east, where the Enemy's tower stood tall above the surrounding lands. Black pinnacles and menacing towers pierced the shrouded sky. At the top of the tower, for little more than a second, a huge eye, wreathed in flame and smoke, was visible. It was facing away from the hobbits, unaware of their presence. But Frodo fell to the ground as though stricken with pain, and clutched the ring desperately in his shaking hand.

He cried, his tears streaming down his ashen face, and he gasped out pleas to Sam as he lay on the dirty ground. "Help me, Sam! Help me, Sam! Hold my hand! I can't stop it." Sam held Frodo's hands tightly in his own, and repeatedly rubbed them and kissed them as he tried to soothe his ailing master. For a moment, Sam feared that the Enemy had spotted them, and that all was over. "He's spotted us!" he thought, finally allowing himself to despair. "It's all up, or it soon will be. Now, Sam Gamgee, this is the end of ends."

In a desperate final attempt, he picked Frodo up and began to run with his frail master. He just had to reach the top of the mountain, and get the ring into its fiery depths… then everything would be over, and perhaps they would awake from this nightmare.

He had not gone far up the path when a sudden force drove into his back, forcing him to fall forward and land on the ground with a painful thud. With no time for recovery, he froze when he heard a voice come from behind him. It was a wicked, hateful voice that was all too familiar.

"Wicked masster!" the creature hissed. It was Gollum, the withered, wretched being that had stalked Sam and Frodo for months, desiring the Ring for himself. For a short time, Gollum, a previous possessor of the Ring, had actually served as their guide through Mordor, leading them to Mount Doom, unaware that they meant to destroy his "precious". But he found out their plans in the end, and betrayed them, setting them up to be killed in the lair of a deadly spider. The two hobbits, after escaping the ordeal, never thought they would see Gollum again, and were glad of this fact. Yet here he was.

"Wicked masster cheats us; cheats Sméagol, gollum. He musstn't go that way. He musstn't hurt Preciouss. Give it to Sméagol, yes, give it to us! Give it to uss!"

Gollum was clawing incessantly at Frodo, tearing his clothes, scratching his face and arms, trying to get the ring that Frodo held tightly in his fist. Sam drew his sword, but there was naught he could do. If he tried to attack Gollum, he risked hurting his master. But the Ring had slowly begun to take over Frodo's mind, awakening the obsession that had claimed all of the previous Ring-bearers. He fought back with a terrible rage, defending the Ring, which was becoming his own 'precious'. He managed to kick Gollum off of him and scrambled quickly to his feet. 

"Down, down!" he gasped at Gollum, who was crouching on the ground, looking at the menacing fire in Frodo's eyes and the steel of Sam's blade in terror. Frodo knew that he had come too far to let this creature defeat him at the last… when their destination was in site, the entrance to the Chamber of Fire, the heart of Mount Doom, was only yards from them. "Begone," he continued breathlessly, "and follow me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom." 

Gollum backed away in submission, though Sam still detected a glint of desire in the creature's blinking eyes. Frodo seemed to relax, but Gollum seemed to grow more agitated, silently planning a terrible deed in his mind.

"Look out!" Sam warned his master. "He'll spring!" He stepped between Frodo and the crouching Gollum, waving his sword in warning to the latter as he urged his master to leave. "Quick, master!" he panted. "Go on! Go on! No time to lose. I'll deal with him. Go on!"

Sam was paying too much attention to the gangly creature at his feet to notice the odd change of expression in Frodo's voice and face.

"Yes, I must go on," he said drearily, almost methodically. His eyes were unfocussed, and he fingered the Ring delicately. "Farewell, Sam! This is the end at last. On Mount Doom doom shall fall. Farewell!" He turned and continued, walking slowly but steadily up the path, leaving Sam behind him. 

Sam watched him go for a moment, and then directed his attention back to Gollum. "Now," he said, his voice filled with the undeniable hatred he felt towards the miserable creature. "At last I can deal with you!" He raised his sword as if to strike, and Gollum went limp and whimpered at the threat.

"Don't kill us," he wept. "Don't hurt us with nasty cruel steel! Let us live, yes, live just a little longer. Lost lost! We're lost. And when precious goes we'll die, yes, die into the dust. Dusst!" he wailed, and continued to weep, shielding his eyes from Sam's fatal blow.

But Sam found himself, loath though he was to admit it, moved to pity at the sight of the poor creature, driven to madness by the evil Ring of the Enemy. Gollum, he had been told, was once a hobbit, before the Ring came into his possession and ruined him, twisting him into what he was now: a frog-like, skeletal being that begged Sam for whatever mercy was left in the hobbit's heart. For a moment, Sam envisioned Frodo like this, if Frodo were to fail to destroy the Ring. 

His hand wavered.

"Oh, curse you, you stinking thing!" he snapped. "Go away! Be off! I don't trust you, not as far as I could kick you; but be off. Or I shall hurt you, yes, with nasty cruel steel."

He watched for a moment as Gollum ran away in relief, crawling on all fours down the descending path, and then he turned and quickly climbed the slope to join his master. A brief moment later, Gollum did the same, a slinking figure moving in the shadows.

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	2. Nine fingered Frodo

JUDGMENT DAY

By: Keara

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Part II:  Nine-fingered Frodo

Frodo stood inside the Chamber of Fire, on the brink of a great ledge.  Flames licked the high walls of the rocky hollow, but Frodo ignored the burning sensation of the heat on his face.  He did not blink when sparks came dangerously close to marring his eyes.  He fingered the Ring, and looked down at it, pressing it against his chest with something akin to possession.  It was so beautiful, and its weight, when the burden was not choking him, was almost a comfort to his palm.  He ran one small finger around its rim, caressing it like a priceless treasure.  Because that was what it was to Frodo—priceless.  And he wondered just what its destruction might cost him. 

"Too much," he thought sadly.  "But it must be done..."

He thought of Bilbo, and wondered how the older hobbit had managed to possess the Ring for so long without it driving him mad.  For it was driving Frodo to the limits of his sanity.  He had considered himself as one who contained great pride and dignity, yet he had resorted to crawling on all fours like a blind beggar who was kicked in the street.  A beggar with know past or future, to whom the comforts of life were unknown.  The chain around his neck dug into his flesh, an imprint that could be permanent, for all the hobbit knew.  And on more than just the skin of his back. 

Frodo shuddered and removed the Ring from its chain, preparing to throw it into the pit of flames that danced below him.  He carelessly dropped the links of steel that had been such a burden, an unwelcome parallel of the weight of his quest.  The metal clinked against the rocky ledge as it slowly slipped off of firm ground and into the heat, where the fires of Mount Doom licked their embrace, perhaps tasting the closeness of the Ring.  He thought of how happy everyone would be when they learned of his success.  The war against the Enemy would be over, and Middle-earth would be at peace.  He thought of all the lives he would save by the simple task of dropping the Ring into the red fissure of flame.   He thought of his home in the Shire, and seeing all of the hobbits again.  He thought of his uncle Bilbo, who had taken him in as a child when his parents died.  Throughout the course of his journey, Frodo had found himself missing Bilbo above everyone else. 

But other thoughts came unbidden to his mind--other memories.  The terror of learning the truth behind this mysterious Ring.  It seemed unfair, as he moved absently closer to the edge, that he had been forced into all of this.  He never wanted Bilbo's silly trinket.  Before he knew of its origin, he had no desire for it.  And when he learned what it truly was, he was never told of what horrors he would face if he agreed to have it destroyed.  He had often hoped, sometimes aloud, and sometimes in silence on sleepless nights, that the Ring had never come to him.  That someone else had been forced to deal with its evil tendencies.  Because it was true; he had been forced.

Perhaps he didn't want to destroy it, now.  Perhaps it was too much for him to handle, perhaps the foresight of the wise was wrong and misleading.  The doom of men was at hand, by Sauron's might, and by Saruman's dexterity. "No! No! Destroy it now! Before it is too late!" a voice within him cried.  But he paid the voice no heed.  In this moment, as he stood upon the doorsteps of doom, he forgot all he knew about the Ring's evil.  The Enemy didn't know they had it, what harm could it be to use it for good, or to just keep it secret for a little while longer?  To let Frodo keep the precious.  He recalled what Gandalf has said to him, before his death by the hands of the Balrog. 

"You were meant to have the Ring."

"Frodo! Master!" he heard Sam call from a tunnel outside the entrance.  But he did not respond.  The part of Frodo that had heard his friend's concerned cry did not seem to have any control on this new Frodo, this angry Frodo, this hungry Frodo.  This tired Frodo.

The heat of the great fissure below Frodo grew more and more intense.  The Ring seemed to sense that it was dangerously close to its destruction, because it impelled Frodo with a new urgency to simply put it on.  Frodo heard more footsteps behind him, and his instincts—whether controlled by the Ring or no—caused him to become alarmed.  His heart was throbbing painfully in his chest.  Pulsing, pulsing.  He heard the footsteps coming closer.  Frodo could hear the sound of his heart beating even over the crackling and roaring fires of Mount Doom.  Confusion clouded his mind.  His eyes were glazed over.  His fingers trembled as he fingered the Ring, and in fear of dropping it, he stepped back from the edge of the chasm and clutched it tightly.  Sweat poured down his brow and stung his eyes.  The footsteps were very close now.  

"Master!" Sam cried to the dark silhouette before him.

Frodo's mind was blank of all thought, except the one purpose he had left.  He turned to Sam, his faithful servant, but his eyes were unfocussed, as though looking past his frightened companion.  "I have come," he said.  "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do.  I will not do this deed."  Sam opened his mouth in horror and surprise, but no words would form in his throat.  Frodo's blank stare lowered to gaze at the Ring that was still lying in his outstretched hand.  "The Ring is mine!"

He put the Ring on his finger, and immediately vanished from sight.

Instantly, Frodo felt a great clamor rise up in the walls of Mount Doom, and he sensed the great eye that he had seen earlier.  But this time, Frodo knew the eye was directly upon him.  "He's found me!" he thought silently, both consciences again becoming one.  "What have I done?"  Trauma did not prevent the truth from registering in Frodo's mind.  He had failed.  After coming so close, he had fallen into temptation, and was now bringing about the fall of Middle-earth as he stood there immobile, willing but unable to pull the Ring from his finger.

Seeing his master disappear, Sam cried and leapt forward, but found a force behind him, just as he had before, driving into his aching back and sending him falling forward.  He hit his head when he fell, and the world went black.

Frodo saw Gollum knock Sam over, saw a deep gash appear on Sam's forehead, and saw Gollum leap at the place where Frodo had been standing before he disappeared.  Frodo reached down to take off the Ring, but it was too late.  He was knocked to the ground by Gollum's expertly aimed jump.

There was a struggle there, on the edge of the fiery chasm, that lasted for several seconds.  But to Frodo, it seemed to last for days.  Gollum fought viciously with his invisible opponent, and Frodo was too weak to fight him off this time.  And then, Gollum found his finger.

A terrible, indescribable, searing pain coursed through Frodo's hand.  He cried out in agony, feeling sick as warm blood gushed out of a wound and seeped in between his fingers.  Gollum was no longer on top of him, and he realized, with steadily increasing horror, that he was no longer invisible.  He looked down at his right hand and saw that Gollum had severed his index finger, along with the Ring.  "No!" his mind cried, and he looked up to see Gollum jumping with bliss on the edge of the chasm, holding the ring, with a finger still lodged inside.  

"Precious, precious, precious!" he cried repeatedly.  "My precious! O my precious!"

And then Gollum stepped back just an inch too far for his weak legs to maintain their balance on the rocky edge.  He fell, and with a last cry of "Precious!", he was gone.

Sam had awoken from being knocked unconscious and had watched these extraordinary events from a few feet away.  He and Frodo, who was now clutching his maimed hand and staring at the fiery chasm, were both stunned for a few moments, their shock at what had just happened too much for their exhausted minds to comprehend.  Then, sensing their danger as the Mountain began to shake and rumble, Sam ran to his injured master and picked him up as though the older hobbit weighed nothing.  And now that he didn't have the Ring, Sam found Frodo much easier to carry.  He proceeded to run out of the door, faster, it seemed, than he had ever run in his life.

Frodo and Sam gazed out on the land of Mordor, at the great tower of Barad-dur, fortress of the Enemy, as it shook and began to crumble.  A growing cloud of ash and dust and smoke devoured the mighty black pinnacles until the tower was completely destroyed.  The earth was shaking violently.

"Well, this is the end, Samwise Gamgee," Frodo said, his voice happy and pure.  He welcomed death; his quest was complete.  He failed in the end, perhaps, but he was free of his burden.  Now he sought peace and rest, and knew that, by life or death, he would achieve both.  For the first time in many months, he was the same innocent Frodo that had left the Shire with a Ring he knew nothing of.

"Master!" Sam cried in relief, noticing this change in his friend.  But he also noticed that his master's hand continued to bleed heavily.  "Your poor hand!" he said sadly, "And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it.  I would have spared him a whole hand of mine rather.  But he's gone now beyond recall; gone forever."

They were silent for a while, and looked out and around at the destruction evil, and reveled in it, for nothing could ever bring them more joy than to witness the destruction of Mordor, the land of the Enemy.

"I am glad you are here with me," Frodo said finally, "at the end of all things, Sam."

"Yes, I am with you, Master.  And you're with me.  And the journey's finished.  But after coming all this way I don't want to give up yet.  It's not like me, somehow, if you understand."

  
          "Maybe not, Sam," Frodo replied sadly; "but it's like things are in the world.  Hope fails.  An end comes.  We have only a little time to wait now.  We are lost in ruin and downfall, and there is no escape."

But Sam could not be discouraged.  He would comfort his master; he would keep Frodo in good spirits to the very end.  "Well, Master, we could at least go further from this dangerous place here, from this Crack of Doom, if that's its name.  Now couldn't we?  Come, Mr. Frodo, let's go down the path at any rate!"

They went down the path together, and Frodo began to despair again.  He was prepared to die, now that his task was done.  But what about Sam?  Sam did not deserve death.  Sam had a beautiful future ahead of him, if only he could survive this somehow.  And Frodo found himself afraid of death, now that it finally faced him.  But he was immensely glad, as he had thought and said aloud numerous times, that Sam was with him.  They had grown so close over the past months; they had fought against the most powerful of evils together.

And now that evil was ended.  The same hand that had drawn him from his home and forced him upon the doorsteps of despair was vanishing before his eyes—soon to be nothing more than a memory of false hopes and idle prayers.  Oh, for all those months he had toiled, through the deepest reaches of darkness to the highest peaks of malevolence.  He saw explosions of light in the air, and heaps of dirt and rock flew in every direction before falling to the ground.  Everything looked so unreal from the outside—for Frodo had been on the inside of a great wickedness when he bore the Ring, never able to escape the great eye of his enemy.  And now he was sundered from the burden he had borne, and his past identity was taken from him.

Sam was staring at him anxiously, looking to Frodo for direction.  Fear of their impending doom marred his features.  Before, Frodo may have offered solace and support to the younger hobbit who had protected him for all this time.  And he had served Frodo so well!  Frodo knew that he could never have come this far without Sam.  He wouldn't have lasted a mere week without Sam.  But despite his guilty conscience, he had no comfort for his companion.  Except to share in his misery.

Ash blew painfully into his already swollen and bloodshot eyes.  He tried to rub them, but that only served to make the irritation worse.  Sam's face was red from the overwhelming heat, perspiration trickling down his brow to mingle with the blood and tears that stained his face.  It broke Frodo's heart again and again to see Sam this way.  Even on the brink of death, Sam stood tall and proud beside his master.  The lava continued to pour out of Mount Doom, completely surrounding the small mound where they stood, but still Sam was strong.  He had not failed in his duty, like Frodo had.  Frodo wondered how he could ever have doubted Sam's endless loyalty.

Frodo cringed in pain as a rock blasted from the mountainside and flew past his arm, brushing his tender flesh, leaving a small cut visible through his tattered clothes.  His hand was still bleeding heavily, and he was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood.  He looked down at his finger, now half its normal size, but he could not see the wound.  The blood was everywhere.

The explosions of earth and fire beat in his ears.  A tight squeeze reminded him that Sam was still holding his uninjured hand.  He met Sam's eyes, and the younger hobbit sighed hopelessly.

"What a tale we've been in, Mister Frodo, haven't we?" he said breathlessly.  "I wish I could hear it told!  Do you think they'll say: Now here comes the story of Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom?  And then everyone will hush, like we did, when in Rivendell they told us the tale of Beren One-hand and the Great Jewel.  I wish I could hear it! And I wonder how it will go on after our part."

Frodo did not answer.  He had nothing—and everything—to say to his servant, his protector, his truest of friends.  His mind was in turmoil.  He wanted nothing more than to throw himself down on the ground and allow the flames and molten rock to overtake his lifeless body.  Only in death could he be free of his pain.

The grinding of rock and stone grew louder, the eruptions of lava more frequent, the shaking of the earth more intense.  The two hobbits stood silently, horrified, on their little hill, feeling lost and forsaken, waiting for the end to come.

"Even now, as we stand here, our friends are at war, perhaps dying," Frodo thought dismally.  No one could escape the war that Sauron had begun, and now, even as the destruction of the Ring was serving to finish it, none could escape the consequences.  The evil that had festered in Mordor for so long was fading away.  The black shroud of darkness that had covered the sky for the past days was beginning to disperse and grow faint.  Turning his eyes to the north, Frodo heard thousands of voices cry out in liberation and relief.  A brilliant, sunlit sky fought against the cloud of night, and it would be victorious.  It was worth all this time, and worth all those endless nights and days without rest or sleep or hope of a happy ending to save them from despair.  It was worth it, if now even one person lived in a world without fear or hate.

But concerning him and Sam, the world was quickly and painfully ending.  More rock flew past, and sparks stung their faces.  Flames form the overheating lava began to crawl up the hillside.  Overcome by heat and fatigue, together they fell to the ground, covering their eyes in despair as they sensed the end drawing close.  Their deaths were here… so close… Frodo felt smoke filling his lungs, and the last dregs of consciousness left in his mind was slowly slipping away.  He was drifting away from life, away from Middle-earth... drifting...

          The last thought that remained in Frodo's mind was a memory from his childhood, a past now long forgotten, and his uncle Bilbo telling him a story of the adventures of a past generation.

          "The eagles are coming…"

And then, finally, sleep took over, and a dream.  Frodo dreamt even as he was saved from death and flames and borne to safety upon the back of a great eagle.  He and Sam were miles away from here, back home in the Shire, and smoking their pipes in the evening as the sun disappeared from the horizon and the stars began to come into view above their heads.  He dreamt of the world before all this badness had happened to drive them to the Mountain of Fire.  In his dream, Frodo was at peace.

In reality, he had reached salvation.

THE END

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DISCLAIMER:  The characters/places mentioned herein are property of J.R.R. Tolkien Estate Ltd., not Keara.  Some dialogue taken from "Mount Doom" and "The Field of Cormallen", from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

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